


James Dean Daydream

by missbeizy



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Photoshoot reaction fic.  You asked for it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	James Dean Daydream

**Author's Note:**

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> 
>   
> 

Will is fine.  

He is one hundred percent fine because—let's face it, Chris is that sexy pretty much every minute of the day, even when he's gross, even when he isn't trying, because love is a hell of a thing.  And photoshoots are always awkward.  And Chris laughs and turns red and fidgets more often than he successfully poses. There is a glint, though, a sort of spark that wasn't there a few years ago, a sliver of something vague and subtle and curious that says,  _I like the way I look, and that feels amazing_.  

But Will is  _fine_.  He takes pictures and texts commentary to his sister and a few friends, makes jokes to ease the tension between Chris and the camera (there is always a little bit of tension there), between Chris and the photographer, between Chris and the assistants who tweak the clothes on his body, who get close and brush his bare skin and make his neck muscles tighten involuntarily.

Will can almost hear Chris counting down the minutes until they can go home and he can turn off.

They break for lunch, sitting side by side, Chris wearing a robe over his outfit, Will's hand fidgeting around his camera (the real one, because this occasion calls for old school posterity).  He's already thinking about creative yet seemingly effortless comedic hash tags.

Chris smells like film-grade make-up foundation, hair spray, and leather.

Will is still fine.

"Posing hurts," Chris says.

He raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Posing is a lot of work and I would appreciate your appreciation."

"Poor baby." He smiles, unable to help himself. "Making sexy at the camera is so hard."

"Your pity satisfies me on a primal level." Chris sips his Diet Coke. "Are you bored?"

Will jiggles his camera. "Never."

Chris's right dimple deepens, crowned with pink. "The butch thing is totally doing it for you." He puts his lips near Will's ear. "I'll put 'leather jacket' on my Christmas list?"

The second half of the afternoon passes slowly, the excitement of new people and Chris looking amazing swallowed by monotony.  After the photoshoot, they do dinner with the crew.  It's late by the time they get home, and Chris is socially tapped out. He's quiet, his hair is drooping, and he's favoring his right foot which means the cut from where he removed a splinter on his left foot last week is bothering him.

He toes his sneakers and shrugs his jacket off standing in front of [the James Dean poster](http://41.media.tumblr.com/df332be1f2af5bf8f2ec019118908a02/tumblr_n58c82rZvK1qe476yo1_500.jpg).

Will tilts his head, flushing hot down the back of his neck.  The resemblance to one of this afternoon's outfits isn't lost on him—but it's more than that.  It's beauty showcased side by side in duplicate, different but sharing similarities, separated by time and circumstance.  It's the story of this man and the mark he's leaving on the world. It's Will's memories of being turned on by that movie, by those tight jeans and that leather jacket, well before he was ready, well before he was able to accept the feeling.

And then Chris groans and pops his neck and puts his phone down, looking tired but indescribably stunning.

Will is so  _not_  fine.

He puts his fingers on the outside of Chris's thighs and presses him back into the poster.  Chris changed back into his T-shirt, skinny jeans, and snapback cap happily after the photoshoot, but he still smells like leather at his collarbone, strongest at the curve of his neck, and Will presses in there and kisses soft skin, thrilling at the instant twitch of Chris's body into his.

"My little James Dean," he whispers, sinking his fingers into Chris's back pockets and squeezing.

Chris laughs. "Yeah, not exactly."

"Better." Will hooks his thumbs on the waistband of Chris's jeans, then relinquishes his hold to slide them around to the front, tugging the button free of its hole. "So much better." He inserts a thigh between Chris's and pushes him a little harder against the wall. "Come here, baby."

"Oh my god." Chris's head falls back against the poster, his hat shifting forward over his eyes.

Will takes the hat off his head, then threads his fingers through Chris's hair, tugging him up into a kiss.  He does it again just to feel the scrape of the shorter-than-usual hair at Chris's temples and on either side of his head, loving the results of his most recent trim. Chris's style changes are subtle, but even when they're vastly different Will falls in love all over again every time without fail.  

It's easy to become enchanted by details when the foundation they're built on is precious to you.

He pulls away when Chris is breathing faster and flushed down the collar of his shirt, savoring the way Chris leans forward in protest.

Will's fingers are already ahead of him, working the zipper on Chris's jeans down, then slipping inside to find him hot and stiffening at an awkward angle.  His jeans are anything but forgiving.

Chris makes a noise and fumbles a side-step, his right hand hitting the wall behind him.

"You were so patient today," Will says, working his hand over the bulge of Chris's cock. Even half-soft, it's huge, and the feel of it makes Will's mouth water. "Gonna let me take care of this?"

"Buttering me up?" Chris asks, his eyes wide and his chest stuttering with uneven breath.

"Sucking you off. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to." He sinks to his knees with a grace that's as much practice as strength, Chris's eyes glued to his flexing thighs, shoulders, and chest.  He peels the jeans from Chris's waist, mouthing down the length of him through his boxer briefs.  They're dark blue, tight, and damp at the front.  The smell of sweat and pre-come mixed with Chris's cologne—faded but no less a marker of his—is enough to make his own dick harden.  He buries his face there and breathes it in, dragging the material down with his teeth because he refuses to stop and use his hands.

"Shit," Chris hisses.

He drags a stubble-covered cheek up the shaft, then open-mouths his way back down to the slender head, guiding it home with his tongue.  It tastes sharp and strange after a day of activity and contact with new places and clothing that wasn't Chris's own, and Will lets the flavor dissolve on his tongue, but not with enough deliberation to keep him from bobbing down around it hungrily.  Out of the corner of his eye, near the bottom of the poster, Chris's clenching hand goes white-knuckled.

"Fuck.   _Fuck_." The second is breathier, high-pitched, and sinks into Will's skin like a shiver.

He scrapes his fingernails up Chris's exposed pelvis, leaving marks behind. "Wanna see you move. Come on."

"Fuck." Chris anchors one hand around the back of Will's head and begins thrusting—even, easy strokes that demand nothing.  

Will sits back on his heels and stares up at Chris's flushed face and ears, at the stubble he allowed to grow for the photo shoot, at his eyes which stare right back, drinking in the sight of his big dick filling up Will's mouth, making his lips stretch and his jaw yield.  Will remembers when they didn't do this—when Chris's eyes remained shut during blowjobs and if Will stared at his face for too long he would laugh and say, "I can't come when you're looking at me."

Now that face is leaner, that hair is higher, that body is wider, stronger, tighter, and that confidence more developed—but the man behind all that is still wonderfully, perfectly his, in the most familiar way.

Will tilts his head down to allow Chris to go faster, searches around his body to clasp that tight ass and hold on when he begins pushing, his hips churning carefully at the end of every thrust that takes him deeper.  He breathes roughly through his nostrils, Chris's pubic hair brushing his jaw, Chris's balls tapping his chin, relaxing into it.  Chris's belly and thighs are tight with effort, appealing landing spots for Will's fingers as they scrabble and squeeze for purchase.

And then he presses his fingers to the seam of Chris's jeans, right between his cheeks, right up against his hole, and Chris moans and practically sits on his hand.

Will releases him with a wet pop, loves the sight of him big and swollen and flopping and shining with spit, hanging out of his underwear and thrusting into nothing, desperate.

"Yeah, wanna come in my mouth?  Right down my throat?"

"Fuck,  _yeah_ , fuck—" He shakes and fumbles when he's close like this, but even awkward he knows he has permission.  He takes himself in hand and feeds his cock back into Will's mouth, leans against the wall and thrusts down into Will's hand and throat, back and forth, faster and faster.  He begins to lose it.  His whimpers are sharp, his thighs spasming, his knees wobbling, the James Dean poster jostling noisily on the wall at his back, and Will just  _takes_  it, swallows around the head as best he can without choking.

Chris comes silently at first, his lips parted, but on the intake there's sound, shaking, high-pitched gasps and wordless exclamations.  He's limp after it leaves him, his pelvis unstrung, his belly heaving, deeply, softly pumping in and out of the circle of Will's lips.

"You okay?" he asks, panting.

Will smiles into his hip. "Fine.   _So_  fine."


End file.
